“Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell you what…” mumbled Walter as he lit his 99-cent cigarillo, its weedy stench stinging Timmy’s nose. “You give me, say, five bucks—no, no—make it three, and I’ll drink a whole bottle of Drano, right in front of your little classmates. How’s that sound, kid?”
Back on the Cessna, the fellas were having a grand ol’ time, slapping each others’ backs as they chortled with delight over their prank. Somehow, they convinced Jake that it was okay to do his first skydive solo! But they only pulled the prank because they knew that out of anyone in their circle—hell, maybe anyone in the whole state of Missouri—Jake had the wherewithal to pull it off. He had been trained well, and they knew that he too would laugh, once they met up with him back on terra firma.
Just then, Kyle, through tears of laughter, managed to utter, “And instead of a parachute, I filled his pack with toiletries!!”
“I’m Santa Claus, and I’ve got a little something in my sack for all the good girls out there…if you know what I mean. Do you? Are you catching my drift here? It’s a double entendre with a sexual connotation. “Sack” could refer to a bag filled with toys—the kind Santa Claus carries. But because of the fact that I’m young and handsome and making no attempt to actually look like Santa, except for the hat and collar, “sack” could be referring to my underpants, and the little something, my penis. Except it’s not little, at all. It’s very big actually. Anyway, as it turns out, my sack is indeed a big bag filled with toys. I’m a eunich.”
Good ol’ gramps. Of course, we make sure to keep him confined to a dark room most of the time, where we force-feed him bran products. But every now and then the daft buzzard manages to slip out of his shackles and make his way to the basement, where we’ll find him flailing away at an enema filled with his own urine. Crazy coot! We do love him though, and boy can he take a punch!
Gabe viewed the ad with some skepticism at first, but after getting to the part about feeling “like Superman,” he was hooked. After all, what red-blooded male doesn’t want to pretend that he’s strong, without actually having strength? And is there a guy alive who wouldn’t want to be able to hump a plank upon which seven sturdy men sit, while remaining a total weakling?!
Was it the hat? No, it couldn’t be! The mustache, perhaps? Impossible! But why then, was it that the ladies didn’t seem to fancy Chet the way his grandmother wished they would? Just then it struck him, like a long, hard bolt of lightning! Indeed, there was someone who could answer the question that has stumped him, his grandmother, his hairdresser, and all the members of his glee club for so long: He would ask Bob, his bed-mate!